Poetry · Writing

Cruel

Middle of death and life sits me. Wondering through open doors wishing they were closed and falling into a routine of pointlessness.

Than cue the purpose. The X to my Y. Pointless converts into a dream, a dream of white fences and Sunday crosswords, lazy Sunday with a dog named Buster and watching Friends reruns. Only if this dream is a dream for two.

Walking the cold night, looking into the moon’s eyes and begging for guidance. Impossible to find something that you’ve already found and lost.

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